


New Place, New Time

by missbeizy



Series: Ventura Beach [2]
Category: Glee RPF
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Innocence, M/M, RPF, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:30:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s friendship with Ashley takes him dangerously close to Chris’ life, and he realizes that their meeting again is inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Place, New Time

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: recreational pot use (both Chris and Will).

Will doesn't find out that Ashley works on Glee as an extra until months after meeting her.  She has one of the busiest lives of any of his acquaintances—she's always doing something, constantly in New York, and half of the time she responds to his texts days later with apologies and promises of baked goods and alcohol that he'll receive at work or his apartment when he least expects them.  She's awesome—he just wishes that they had more time for each other. 

When they do manage to catch up, she usually has weeks of stories to tell, and on this particular night she's two shots in before she starts talking about doing background work on Glee like his other friends would talk about buying artisan cheese at the farmer's market.  And Will, who has been obsessively following the phenomena that is Glee (for more reasons than one), almost falls off of his bar stool.

"How long have you been doing that?" he asks.

"Oh, a while, but I have a speaking part this time—so fucking cool, that show is a blast."

He has to decide whether or not to tell her, then and there, that he knows Chris.  

 _Chris Colfer_ , he thinks.  He knows Chris Colfer.   _In the Biblical sense._

There's every chance that she has never interacted with or met Chris—extras don't always mingle with principle cast, even on the coziest of sets, if they aren't sharing scenes.  She's certainly never mentioned him. But she strikes him as the gregarious type, and he can't imagine her not spreading herself around.  He also can't imagine Chris not drawing her attention—Chris has blossomed so much, and he is sure that if the show maintains its momentum, Chris is going to blow up in a major way.  He doesn't think that he's ever known an actor with the gravitas and talent to bring that kind of character to life the way that Chris has—and aside from his personal interest in Chris, he knows that he's not alone in thinking that he's waited for a character like Kurt Hummel to go mainstream his entire life.

What stops him from telling her is that he knows he  _can't_  tell her without giving away details that he's sure Chris would not want spread around.  He likes her a lot, but he hasn't talked about his week with Chris with anyone—not even his sisters, who he usually tells everything—and if the media buzz is any indication, Chris would appreciate that fact.  So he should probably maintain his silence, even though he feels guilty playing dumb with her.  Then again, she's never mentioned working on Glee before, and he's never mentioned being a fan—so he supposes they're even in that regard.  

They don't talk about Glee for long, anyhow—between them, there's plenty of other gossip to get through.  He brings up his current project (they have this system of code names, since they're usually both under non-disclosures for unfinished projects—Will's current one is called "Last Minute Change Douchebags Part III, Now With Extra Boom Boom").  He talks about his family and his friends.  But mostly he talks about his boyfriend, Sam, who she has always fondly referred to as The Gymnastics Hottie, because that's all Will had known about him for a while after they'd met, and then Ashley had met him, too, and had whistled and said, "I feel you, William," and that had been that.

He's actually really, genuinely happy, and Ashley seems to be, too, and this calls for a pitcher of margaritas and a platter of loaded nachos.

 

*

 

Of course, it's not that easy.

This has more to do with Ashley than any other factor—Glee's upward trajectory is at juggernaut levels, and the production staff likes her so much that they're pitching a regular speaking part to her. She's thrilled, and throws a party at her LA apartment when she comes back to town, inviting everyone that she knows.  There are Glee actors and crew there, and Will almost has a heart attack when he arrives.  He's as much a fanboy as he is an industry man, so there's that, but also he's only begun to realize how close his association with Ashley is going to get him to the sphere of Chris' life.  

He brings Sam as his date because he can't imagine going alone—and is relieved to the point of dizziness when Chris doesn't show up.  He isn't sure why Chris doesn't.  He's sure that Ashley and Chris are friends or friendly, but hasn't worked up the courage to ask.  It just seems so  _obvious_ , and he knows that all it would take would be one conversation between Ashley and one of his Ventura friends to set her mind spinning. She'd make the connection in no time at all.

But if he remains friends with her and the few acquaintances he has that work on Glee's crew and writing team, he is going to eventually end up crossing paths with Chris.  It's becoming frighteningly inevitable, and maybe he should just take the bull by the horns and at least tell her that he'd met Chris a while ago.  He thinks it's unlikely that Ashley has ever mentioned him to Chris and, even if she has, Chris had never learned his last name, so he would have no idea who "Ashley's friend Will who works in post-production" is, anyway; it's not as if William is an uncommon name.

That's the biggest part of the problem—if Ashley finds out that he knows Chris when they eventually run into and react strangely to each other, he'll have an issue with Ashley because she'll want to know why he'd never mentioned knowing Chris, and he'd also have an issue with Chris because Chris will want to know why he has been following Chris' career and making friends with Chris' co-workers without ever having tried to reach out to him to relay a simple  _congrats_  or a  _how's life_  or a  _hey remember that time I popped your cherry and kind of sort of fell in love with you for a week?_

The situation is especially awkward because Will has been dating Sam for a while now and everything is great between them—but he has this weird swooping feeling in his stomach every time that he thinks  _tonight may be the night Chris is here_. It's almost like dread. He just  _knows_ , deep down, that if they meet again, that chemistry will still be there, at least on his end.  He's fully prepared to deal with that—he's committed to Sam, and commitment is important to him—but Chris defies his normal patterns, and he's more than a little worried about how he'll feel once they're face to face.

Months go by and, by some miracle, they never do meet.  Ashley becomes even busier than usual, and then so does he, and his relationship with Sam takes a turn for the serious (Sam takes him home to meet the parents).  His attempts to get in the door at the Glee writer's room flop, and he takes that as a sign.  Maybe he and Chris aren't meant to meet again.  Maybe it's for the best that they don't.

But he can't shake the feeling that he's missing out on something.

 

*

 

Ashley has him carrying nineteen shopping bags up to her apartment.  He's pretty sure that there's at least that many—it had been around bag fifteen when his spine had begun to protest.  She unpacks the assortment of gifts, clothes, and groceries while he turns on the television and checks his phone.

"So there's a thing," she says, shaking her butt to the music playing on whatever show Will had just turned on. "Be my date."

"A thing.  What kind of thing?  Do I need a suit?"

"Nah, bro, I'm like—okay, so you know how everyone on Glee loves me—like, everyone," she says, sarcasm dripping heavily, "and I've been hanging out with the guy who plays Kurt—dude, not gonna lie, the coolest kid.  He's a huge nerd and also like the most flaming baby gay ever and he rocks that in a way I seriously dig.  And now he's all huge and writing books and his own movie and he's been through two puberties in the last year alone, shot up like a weed, hot as fuck, and—the dudes are like, storming the castle, you know? But crowds freak him out and he hates parties.  So I watch his back. We're pretty tight.  Anyway, he's having a housewarming in da Hills, and I really, really want to take you with.  I know how much you wanted in on that Glee action." Will is frozen, staring at her. "I've seen the shrine in your bedroom, boo.  Don't front."

He laughs.  That's not true, but he can't lie about being a fan of the show—he and his friends used to have Glee viewing parties, complete with themed snacks, karaoke-style sing-alongs, and even t-shirts.  He guesses that it's time to fess up—he'd love to go with Ashley to this party, but he can't just spring himself on Chris, and this is preferable to bumping into each other awkwardly one day, anyway.

"Okay, so, you may want to sit down for this," he begins, sitting at her breakfast bar.

She squints. "The fuck haven't you told me?"

He motions around them. "Bubble of silence?"

"Bubble of silence," she says.

"I've met Chris before," he says, and  _crap_ , his face is already tomato red and she knows instantly what he means.

"Oh shit fuck balls," she breathes.

"It's worse than that," he says. "I met him when he was eighteen. Before Glee."

"Don't even."

He sighs. "I was his—first."

"Oh my god.  This is vital information, you raging cock monkey."

"I didn't say anything bec—"

"Of course you didn't—fuck, Chris would  _die_  if that shit got out.  Good job, A plus." She smacks his arm. "So.  Too awks to come to the party?"

"I'd really like to see him again, as friends," he says. "Do you think he'd freak out if I called him?"

"Let me give him a heads up text.  We'll see what he says." His heart pounds the entire time that they wait for a reply, and when her phone dings he actually feels sick.  She reads the text. "Well," she sings, "I'll just translate the typos and keymash as 'sure, call me'."

He wipes his sweaty palms off on his pants. "What did he actually  _say_?"

"Let's leave the interpretation to me, 'kay, babe?" she asks, smiling. "I am his new bestie, after all."

He sits there, stricken, silent, and then says, "Oh  _shit_  what am I going to say?"

"Think fast," she says, swiping her phone.

"Ashley!"

"Hey baby daddy," she answers. "Our mutual friend would like a word, m'kay?"

 _Oh shit oh fuck oh god._ He can't breathe.

"Hey, Chris," he says into the phone, feeling as if he's floating above this scene looking down on it.

"Wow, uh.  Hey."

His body tingles and flashes hot.   _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that voice._  It's maybe one octave lower than it had been a year and a half ago, but it's still airy and high and faintly teasing.

"H-hey," he says, again, unable to think of anything wittier.

Chris laughs, and the hair on his arms stands up. "William Sherrod, huh?"

"Chris Colfer, I presume."

"It's nice to meet you," Chris says, and fucking  _shit_  his dryly amused tone is like music.  The phone slips in Will's sweaty grip—he can barely hold on to it. "So you're going to be her plus one?"

"If you're okay with that."

He can't pinpoint exactly what's different—Chris sounds older, more sure of himself, and yet there's still that wonderful sarcastic sweetness, hints of the awkward, geeky kid beneath, and he finds it reassuring to know that Chris is still something like the eighteen year old he'd fallen for.  

Chris is quiet for a moment, and then asks, "Can I ask—why now?"

"I wanted to tell Ash that I knew you," he says. "But I didn't want to get into details, so it was just easier to not mention it. But I also didn't want us to run into each other without explaining that to you first, and just now she mentioned the party and I—well, I figured it was time to come clean." He sucks in his bottom lip. "I didn't want you to think that I was trying to weasel my way back into your life like some kind of stalker."

"Okay," Chris says. "I—I'm good.  I mean, I want to see you.  If you want to come."

Beginning to feel comfortable, he smiles. "I do.  Okay.  Good. That's—should I bring anything?"

"Just Ashley," Chris says, laughing. "Put her on?"

Will hands off the phone so fast that he almost drops it again.  His heart is racing.  He gets up and paces while Ashley speaks in friend code with Chris for a few minutes, and then ends the call.

" _Smooth operator_ ," she sings.

He groans. "I am so stupid."

"You need an outfit."

"Oh my god, I am  _so stupid_."

His flannel, khaki, and button-up laden wardrobe is thoroughly judged by Ashley, who then drags him to a designer store and buys him a gorgeous pair of jeans, new boots, and a bright blue dress shirt with a skinny black tie.

"Consider it a gift for all the years of birthdays we missed not being friends five eva," she says.

"I look amazing.  You are a goddess.  Thank you."

"Blue is his favorite color," she stage whispers.

He blushes. "I'm not looking to flirt with him."

"Of course not; who would  _think_  such a thing?" she asks, faking a gasp.  She drapes a scarf around his neck and swans off toward the register.

 

*

 

Will trips over three Glee cast members just to get through the foyer of Chris' house, and his inner fanboy does pee a little, he has to admit—but being introduced to them is not nearly as glamorous as he'd thought it would be, partly because Ashley introduces him as "my friend Will who makes movies beautiful", which confuses at least half of the people who he's being introduced to, and partly because the Glee folks are super normal and way too nice and it's not like meeting celebrities at all.

He has a drink and lets Ashley drag him into every cluster of people and corner, and when his eyes are sparkling and his smile is growing involuntary she pats his back.

"You ready, tiger?"

"Nope," he says, honestly.

"He's in the kitchen.  Go, go."

"You're coming with me, aren't you?"

She scoffs. "Absolutely not.  Fly, baby bird.  Fly."

"I hate you."

"You love me."

He groans and walks toward the kitchen.  He is not at all ready.  But he never will be, so...

He peaks inside.  Chris is talking to a couple of people, but he breaks away from them almost as soon as Will sees him, stepping back into what looks like from this angle to be a walk-in pantry.  Will walks through the kitchen, smiling politely at the other guests until he's standing outside of the pantry.

Chris exits the pantry with a bulk-sized pack of clear party cups in his hand, looks up, opens his mouth, and drops the cups all over the kitchen floor with a soft, high-pitched, " _Oh my god_."

Will doesn't even glance at the sprawling wave of cups in reflex.  He can't take his eyes off of Chris.  Chris is—different.  Three inches taller, slender as a wisp, with flawless, upright hair, and cheekbones and a jawline to die for.  He's wearing black slacks and a red button-up that fit him perfectly.

"Hi," Will blurts.

The first thing that Will recalls is holding him like the world had been about to end the last time that they'd said goodbye, telling him to go home and Chris thanking  _him_ , as if  _he_  had been the one who'd given a gift, as if  _he_  hadn't been just as grateful for the experiences that they'd shared. He remembers Chris all but refusing to cry, his eyes wet with tears and his hands grasping Will's shirt like a lifeline.

He steps heedlessly over the sea of cups between them, and Will thinks for one horrible moment that Chris is going to try to shake his hand—but then Chris' arms are around his waist and his are around Chris'—much broader—shoulders, and they're holding onto each other and  _oh.  Oh._

"Oh my god," Chris whispers into his temple.

Will tightens his hold. "You—you look amazing."

"I can't believe you're here."

Finally, he has to pull away, for his own sanity.  Of course, being able to look into Chris' eyes up close is its own torment—Chris isn't Kurt Hummel, and no amount of gawking at that face on television could ever equate to  _this_. Will has to fight back the urge to reach up and touch his face, to pull him into a kiss before either of them can think better of it.

_Shit._

"Great party," Will says, and feels as lame as it is humanly possible to feel.

"Can we talk?" Chris asks, disturbing cups as he tugs Will aside. "Let me—clean this up, and we can—"

"Sure, sure."

There's a powder room off of the foyer, and Chris leads him inside and locks the door. "Other than the bedrooms this is the only empty room right now, and—well.  Bedrooms.  Probably not—uh."

"You're still awkward as hell," he says, smiling. "Thank god.  I don't know what I would've done if you'd become really cool."

Chris laughs. "Uh, thanks."

Will's manners reassert themselves. "Congrats, first of all.  Glee is amazing.  Kurt is amazing.  You are amazing."

"Thank you." Chris' cheeks flush. "You called it."

"That I did."

"And your house is gorgeous," Will says, "and you must be so happy to be here and not where you grew up."

"I am," Chris says, smiling. "I'm really loving it."

Will stares for a moment, and then smiles back. "You're different, but you're still—" He shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm just kind of floored."

"What about you?  Anything new?" Chris asks, sitting on the lip of the sink (and oh,  _god_ , Will hadn't even noticed his ass or thighs or how his long legs look even longer now that they're thinner).

"I'm thinking about a change, but we'll see.  Mostly the same, though." He does the proud uncle thing and whips out his phone to show Chris pictures of his niece, though, which seems to break the ice fairly effectively.  The pictures are broken up by ones of him and Sam.

"Boyfriend?" Chris asks.

"Yeah." Will clears his throat. "You?"

"I'm—seeing someone.  Yeah."

Will smiles. "I'm glad."

The moment hangs, pregnant and screaming, and then Chris laughs. "It's okay if it's weird?"

Will's chest deflates. "It's okay."

"Good," Chris says, rubbing his arm. "Have a drink with me?"

He's relieved to say yes, and just as relieved to escape sharing that tiny space.

By the end of the night they're chatting like old friends, and Will gives Ashley a nod that says  _we're good_.  It's true—at least, enough so that Will can walk away from the party with his wits in tact and his feelings manageable.  But Chris leaves color in his wake, paint splashed across the dry canvas of Will's existence, and no matter what Will does he can't pretend that he isn't different after that night.  

Between writing, touring, Struck, and Glee, though, he and Chris end up doing more socializing in groups at completely random times than anything else over the next year or so.  

Will hangs out with Chris' friends, and Chris finally agrees to come hiking with his friends, who greet Chris with open arms and laughter and many variations on the theme of "Jailbait's all grown up!" and "Oh, god, he got  _hot_ " (Will thinks that he has always been hot) and "Does he have a boyfriend?  Get out of my way, I'm going in!" They give Will endless amounts of shit for schmoozing with celebrities the minute that Chris leaves, of course, but they all secretly love it.

Even with all that, though, Will can tell that Chris isn't really present, even when he's physically there.  He's constantly tired and working—when he comes back from the tour he's writing a book and filming a movie and Will only sees him every once in a while.  They Skype sometimes, text a lot, but the content of their interaction is no racier or deeper than any other that Will has with his close friends.  

Still, their conversations mean something to him, and he savors every word.

They're both writers, and both subject to the whims of the industry with a capital i—they get each other.  Personal things follow as they begin to open up to one another—frustrations with sexuality—mostly the expression and acting on thereof—with body image, with dieting, with the struggle to look  _and_  feel good, with trying to date when all other men want to do is fuck, with belief, with the search for honesty in others, with loneliness even when you shouldn't feel lonely, with artistic integrity versus necessary exposure, and on and on.  They never seem to run out of things to say to each other.

All the while, Will's daily life plods along.  He goes to work.  He goes to the gym.  He goes to Starbucks.  He goes out with Sam.  He calls his mom.  He buys his nieces and nephews books and toys.  He blogs. He writes.  He feels blessed—he's living the life that he'd always dreamed of living.

 

*

 

Chris has a real break for the first time mid-summer that year, and one of the first things that they do is go out for tacos and drinks with Ashley.  They get royally smashed and end up taking a cab back to Chris'.  Ashley passes out between them on the couch, and Will spends the first hour of the next day making excuses to Sam.  He feels guilty—they'd had plans to go to brunch before heading over to the gymnastics meet that he has scheduled, and Will is hung over in the Hills on Chris Colfer's couch.

Will is not the kind of guy that gets off on reckless behavior or situations, but he has to admit that Chris strolling sleep-rumpled and scrunchy-faced in sweatpants and a tank top through the kitchen at ass o'clock in the morning does things to him that it shouldn't.

"You want coffee?" Chris asks, raspy and quiet.

"Chai?"

"Sure."

They knock back their drinks like medicine, and Chris cracks an eyelid. "Hey, sorry.  You weren't supposed to stay over, were you?"

"No big deal."

"Hot date?"

He smiles. "Middle school gymnastics competition."

"Oh, baby, slow down," Chris says in a squeaky, joking voice.

Will's cheeks go hot. "Yeah, I know."

"Aw, no, I'm kidding.  It's sweet that you guys do that stuff together. Mine won't even get take out with me." Chris has been extraordinarily close-lipped about this mystery man.

"Why the heck not?"

"Ugh, I don't even want to get into it."

A guy like Chris could reshape Will's entire existence with a flick of his fingertips, and Will finds it difficult to accept that the man Chris is sharing himself with isn't making him happy.  

"We don't need to talk about it, but I'm—I'd really like to be someone you can confide in."

"There was this guy, when I first—anyway, he was a closet case and it was a disaster.  Since then it's just been steady hookups, when I have the time or I'm in a certain city.  But now this guy is—I think he's also a closet case, and I'm doing it again.  I keep fucking these idiots who I think are just discreet because that's what I need, but then they just end up being assholes who don't want their careers 'ruined'."

"Ah."

"I can't trust anyone," Chris says, spinning his mug in circles. "And every time I think I can, they pull the one thing that I don't see coming.  This guy, I thought—but no.  Same shit. Different day."

"I'm sorry, honey." Will tangles their ankles beneath the table. "I know how hard it is for you to date.  Having fun with those hookups, at least?"

Chris smirks. "Uh, yeah." He exhales, and then lowers his voice. "Sometimes I forget—I mean, I never  _forget_. But sometimes it slips my mind that you—that we—that you're the same Will—"

A blush creeps down the back of Will's neck.  

He tries not to think of that week now that he and Chris are friends, but he understands how Chris feels—sometimes he forgets that  _this_  Chris had once been  _his_  Chris.

He runs the side of his foot up Chris' calf. "It's okay to acknowledge it.  Don't you think?  It happened."

Chris' toes crawl around his ankle.  He is so turned on that he can't think. "It certainly did."

He clears his throat. "Okay then."

Chris laughs, ducking his face. "Sorry."

"You're—just, sorry, I'll—" He clears the breakfast dishes just like his mom taught him a good guest should always do.  And since what he's suffering calls for hiding his crotch against the dishwasher, it kind of works out.

Later that day at the meet, Sam gives him the cold shoulder.  After, at dinner, he says, "Do you notice how you drop everything when Chris comes back into town?  He's almost never here for you, but the minute he has some free time you're  _right_  there." They walk out of the restaurant, Will struggling to keep up with Sam's angry strides. "I just—I dunno, I know you got attached to that kid when he was younger, but lately—shit, I dunno. It feels like you're substituting him for me half the time."

"I'm sorry," Will says, and means it. "He's just never available, and I guess I—you know how eager to please I am.  I'm flattered that he wants to hang out with me."

Sam deflates there on the sidewalk and takes his hand. "But if we have plans, we have plans.  Right?"

"Right."

Nothing is the same after that.  It had been their first real fight, and Will has learned that first fights often make or break a relationship—you either decide to solve the problem together and keep going, or it exposes something that can't be fixed.  The jury is still out on he and Sam, of course, but all the trappings of failure are there—he feels stifled and unhappy when they spend the weekend together, he gravitates toward other friends when they're in groups, and the time that he spends with Chris feels like a vacation from his life with Sam.

 

*

 

They're at a concert—in a pretty sizable group, so Will isn't worried about anything potentially problematic happening between them.  It had been a bit of a shock to see Chris in form-fitting black (jeans, sneakers, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled back off of those gorgeous forearms), to see the eyeliner around his eyes, and to notice that he'd pre-gamed and is loose and giggling, but Will deals.

"It's the only way I can get him to rush the stage anymore," one of Chris' Glee crew friends tells Will.

Public events with crowds are not easy for Chris anymore, but the band and venue are obscure enough to allow for some freedom.  They don't interact much.  Will sticks to Sam's side almost the entire set, at least until the encore begins—the lights come back up and Chris is nowhere to be found.  He's practically vanished.  Will allows himself to worry when Chris doesn't show up before the last song, and excuses himself to go looking.  He knows he's being stupid—Chris can take care of himself—but he can't help it.  Chris' bodyguard isn't with them tonight, and he feels responsible.

He heads toward the bathrooms, turns a corner, and runs smack into Chris exiting them.  Chris' hair is wet and his eyeliner smeared—he'd obviously splashed water all over his head and neck—and he's smiling, moving easily, so much so that when Will puts a hand up to keep them from colliding Chris just flows into him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

"Hello," Chris says (even this far from the stage, he has to shout to be heard).  He begins to sway from side to side. "Dance with me."

Will laughs. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just had to cool down." He looks up at Will, all smudged eyeliner, glowing pale skin, and vibrant blue-green eyes. "Where's Sam?"

"Out—out in the crowd."

"Dance with me."

Will is a terrible dancer.  So is Chris.  Not surprisingly, their mutual awful does not negate the resulting awful.  But they do laugh a lot, wiggling like idiots together to the sound of the band finishing its set.  Chris doesn't look away from his face, not once, and though all Will does is put his hands on Chris' back politely, it feels as if his hands are everywhere, and as if Chris is doing things with his gaze that only characters with superpowers should be able to do.  

It doesn't matter that they aren't touching inappropriately—what's between them isn't appropriate, isn't the right thing for this time, and they both know it.

And then they're not dancing.  They're just moving, and Chris' fingers are carding through the hair at the back of his head, and his fingers are digging into Chris' shoulder blades because if they don't stay right there they're going to go where they really want to go.

They don't exchange another word, but when the crowd begins to exit the floor—the band has gone backstage—they untangle, inch by inch. Chris' face is beet red and his eyes are shining, and Will—Will has no clue what his own face looks like.  He just feels  _wrecked_.

"Let's find the guys," he says.

Chris follows him.

 

*

 

The next time, it's an afternoon at one of his friend's pools.

Chris shrugs his tank top high enough up his back to try and get sunscreen on it without taking it off entirely, and Will knees across their overlapping towels and asks, "Let me?"

Chris' mouth squirms. "Remember the last time you offered to do that?"

Will's stomach swoops. "You were so nervous."

"I popped a boner when I met you.  'Nervous' was pretty much a given."

Will laughs. "You were an eighteen year old gay virgin on a beach covered with half-naked men.  It's a miracle you didn't come in your pants."

Chris lies down on his stomach, kicking his feet out behind him. "No," he says, propping up his chin with one hand. "I only had eyes for you." He stares for a moment too long, and Will's neck heats up and his belly twists.  God, what this man does to him.

No one is paying any attention to them, so he reaches for the sunscreen bottle. "My offer stands."

Chris doesn't break eye contact as he grasps his tank top and pulls it up and over his head.  Will keeps his eyes politely north, even when Chris' body shifts to get comfortable on the towel and those beautiful shoulders must be rippling and his long back glowing under the direct sunlight, and—

He puts his chin on his folded arms, adjusts his pelvis, and smiles at Will. "Go ahead."

Will kneels over his left leg and applies the sunscreen to his back and shoulders and arms as slowly as possible without actually going backwards.  Chris relaxes under his hands, going soft and loose on the towel.  Will massages the lotion into his milk-white skin for what feels like an hour, carefully keeping his crotch away from the back of Chris' leg.  

He's so turned on that it  _hurts_ , but that doesn't mean he has to act on it.  Except for Chris beginning to shift under his touch.  Except for Chris' sweet, bendy back curling just a little when he inhales, makes a noise, and switches cheeks to the other side of his folded arms.  Will takes a deep breath and slides his hands down Chris' back along either side of his spine, skimming the dip and then the rise of his ass and back again, over and over, until at the end of every sweep Chris' ass is rising subtly into his palms.  

His heart is slamming against his chest, and his dick is getting tight.  

This was so  _not_  his plan.  He never seems to be prepared nowadays for how—intense Chris is.  How much more comfortable he is in his own skin, and with his ability to turn men on, and how aware he is of what he wants and how he can get it.  He's grown up.  A lot.  His confidence is breathtaking.

Unable to resist, Will curls his fingers over the tops of Chris' shoulders, digging in, and at the last second he squeezes one hand around the back of Chris' neck, and—

Chris inhales noisily, and grinds down into the towel.  

He goes still.  This is rapidly approaching  _not cool_  territory. "Sorry," he says, stopping.

Chris' ribs expand—his back rises against Will's hands, and his face is bright red. "I—am not going to be able to get up for a while."

Normally, Will would crack a dirty joke to make Chris laugh.  But Chris is half-naked between his legs, and he's—not feeling very funny.  He wants to press down against Chris, kiss the back of his neck and shoulders, slide a hand between his dick and the towel and jerk him off rough and messy, make him come in his swimsuit while he bites down on his arm to stay quiet.  

More than anything Will wants to enjoy this desire, wants to stop feeling guilty that he feels this way about someone other than Sam.  But he can't.  He's just not that kind of guy.

"I am sorry, I—I didn't mean to let this escalate, I just—"

Chris sits up, dragging the beach towel into a ball over his lap. "Would you relax, please?  It's noble of you and I respect that but  _goddamn_ , we have history and chemistry and it's okay to  _feel_  things."

Will goes quiet.  The jab hurts, just a little, and yet again reminds him that Chris is not that unsure teenager anymore.  And this is as close to talking about their history as they've ever come—it feels dangerous but also cathartic.  He wonders if this is a conversation that they need to have.

He scrubs a hand through his hair. "You're right."

Chris sighs, and pokes Will's shoulder. "Who told you that was my favorite phrase?"

Despite himself, Will laughs.  

 

*

 

The time after that, they're crammed six to a couch to watch a movie in a friend's apartment, they're high as kites, Sam is sitting in someone's lap across the room, and there's a blanket flung over them.

Will is a pretty boring stoner—he just kind of wanders off mentally and comes up with amazing screenplay ideas that he can never remember the next day.  Sometimes he does that and eats an entire bag of chips or a pizza by himself—he prefers the times when he doesn't, though.  

Chris is a slinky, silly, tactile stoner.  Will normally hates that, but it's hard to be annoyed by Chris when he's stroking your kneecap and breathing movie commentary down the collar of your shirt, which usually ends with him nuzzling into your neck like a kitten in need of reassurance.

When his initial buzz mellows Chris gets quieter, becomes more aware of how he's acting, grows paranoid and keeps himself to one person or no one at all—and tonight it's obvious which option he's chosen.  He slides his open hand up and down Will's thigh slowly, as if every brush of the fabric of Will's pants is a discovery that the pads of his fingers are making all on their own.

Will is just glad that he's wearing thick jeans and tight underwear, because he's sure that a night of this is going to leave him aroused and embarrassed, in that order.  He focuses on watching the movie and making the witty technical commentary that is his calling card among his friends.  He manages pretty well, especially when Chris comes down from the high and backs off a little.

And then Chris is just a sleepy weight on his shoulder.  This should make it easier, but something about Chris just—dosing off against him in complete trust and comfort makes it worse.  

At some point he realizes that Chris has woken up and is staring at his jaw close up and cuddled near.  It feels nice—the warmth of his body and breath, and the way that he seems content to be with Will in whatever way they end up together.  It's exciting and comforting at the same time.

"I have no idea what's going on in this movie," he whispers, right against the shell of Will's ear.

Will shivers. "Would you like a summary?"

"No," he says, letting his lips brush Will's earlobe.

"Okay." Will tries and fails to not feel Chris' eyelashes brushing his cheek.

"Are you ticklish?" Chris asks, dragging the tip of his nose down the side of Will's neck.

Will twitches and makes a noise. "No!"

He grins, doing it again. "Gotcha."

"Chris."

"Will." Will slides his hand beneath the blanket to Chris' side and digs in. "No!  Ah!"

"You started it."

"Fair enough," Chris says, flopping back into place.  This time, he drapes his arm around Will's torso and cuddles closer. "For your crimes, you will suffer the fate of body pillow."

"Horrifying."

"It's cruel, I know."

Will lets his arm fall from the back of the couch to Chris' shoulders.  He has no idea where Sam has disappeared to—but almost everyone else is passed out or engrossed in the movie or their phones.  Chris' hand is tracing circles up and down his side, and he scratches his fingernails over Chris' shoulders through his t-shirt.  It's comfortable and intimate and for once he allows himself to relax into it, bumping their legs and knees together over the edge of the couch cushions.

He can feel Chris smile against his collarbone. "This is nice." And then he tenses up. "Okay, I'm still kind of high.  Am I doing the bad thing again?"

Will laughs. "Uh, no.  It's okay." He's a lot less concerned when they have witnesses, because there are clearly defined limits, especially when Sam is under the same roof.

"Oh, good," Chris says, digging his cheek and nose into Will's shoulder and sliding his hand all the way down Will's side to the waistband of his pants.  His voice drops in volume but rises in pitch. "Because you feel amazing right now."

Will's pulse spikes.   _Crap._

"Did I tell you I dreamed about the beach?" Chris asks, his words dropping like stones into deep water. "I've never dreamed about it before.  Not once.  But recently—god, Ventura is not even that—I mean at the time it felt like the tropics and now I know better, but—I dreamed.  About walking in the waves with you.  About feeling good.  So good." His fingertips dig in between Will's waistband and the skin of his back.  He practically purrs, pressing their bodies close beneath the blanket.

Will exhales carefully through his nostrils. "I think about it all the time."

"I get so embarrassed thinking about it.  I had no clue what I was doing." Chris' lips brush his ear with every word. "But the one thing I always think about—my go to fantasy—is when I was on my knees and you were fucking my mouth.  Your body above me, and the way you were touching me..."

Will bites back a noise.  His dick throbs in his pants.  He doesn't know what to say.  All he can do is remember—Chris' cheeks hollowing in both surprise and pleasure around his cock, Chris' eyes watering and his chin soaked with spit, the almost invisible green sheen of the condom that Will had worn, the noise that Chris had made when Will had come, pushing deep into the back of his mouth.  

Will has had some incredible sex and been with some truly hot guys since—and he's sure that Chris has, too—but none of that had ever come close to that week.  Nothing.  For him, at least.

 _God_. What is he doing?  Why is this happening now, just when he'd managed to move on?

Agitated, he reaches for the empty on the floor beside his foot. "Can I—do you want another drink?"

"N-no, I'm—"

Without waiting for Chris to finish he gets up and walks into the kitchen. Sam is standing with the friend whose lap he'd been occupying earlier.  The friend is smoking, so they're by the back window, letting the tendrils waft out into the night.

"Hey," he says, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator.  He puts his hand on Sam's lower back.

"Hey," Sam says, leaning into him.

At the end of the night, driving Sam home, Will has the words on the tip of his tongue.  

 _We can't do this anymore.  I'm not in love with you anymore.  I'm so, so sorry._    

And then Sam says, "We need to talk."

 

*

 

"What the hell does that mean?" Chris asks.

"He wants us to see other people.  See if we even still want to be together."

"Who does that?  Seriously?  Is this 1980?  Are you lesbians?"

Will is a fucking wreck.  He's been with Sam so long that detaching feels like being abandoned in a new place with not the first clue of how to navigate or even speak the language.  He just really needs his best friend right now, and he's so thankful that Chris is willing to talk to him this late.  He'd tried to unload on Ashley, but she's probably asleep—she hadn't answered his texts.

"I'm coming over," Chris says.  Will can just barely hear the jingle of his keys.

"It's one in the morning."

"You're a mess.  I have off tomorrow.  The only question you need to answer is: vanilla or strawberry?"

Will sniffles loudly. "You're so mainstream, Colfer." He smiles. "Both?"

"Excellent choice."

Which is how he ends up eating strawberry ice cream in his Wolverine pajamas with Chris at three in the morning after a good cry—he'd let Chris rub his back and himself lose it completely.

"Did you get the impression that he wanted to call it off but chickened out?" Chris asks around his spoon.

"He was so weird," Will says, slumping back while sitting with his legs folded and sideways to face Chris on the couch. "Like it almost seemed rehearsed but then he just lost it?  And got all random and scatterbrained?  I almost didn't get what he was trying to say until the very end."

"What does a break even mean for you guys?"

"What else?  Fucking other people." Will rolls his eyes. "It always comes down to that."

"I hear that," Chris says, sighing, tapping his spoon against the still-frozen center of his ice cream pint.

"Is that the sigh of you having finally kicked the musician to the curb?"

"Honey, he was already living on the curb.  I think he finally crossed the street, though."

"Ah."

Chris shrugs. "It wasn't going anywhere—and to be honest, I'm getting tired of that particular song and dance."

Will smiles and then ventures, "So when he crossed the street, was that  _right_  into traffic or...?"

Chris laughs, putting the back of his hand against his forehead. "I've never even told you his name and you still make me feel better about him more often than anyone else I know."

"It doesn't matter," Will says, "not to me.  I don't care if he's famous or if he plays coffee houses to pay the rent—he had to be someone at least a little special if you liked him."

Chris' cheeks darken.  He continues jabbing his ice cream forcefully. "I guess so."

They stare at each other, and Will can only think about how trashed he must look.  He hasn't showered.  He's been crying all day.  He's started a text to Sam a dozen times and sent none of them.  He'd almost called Sam at lunch.  And he isn't sure whether it's the sugar or Chris or both, but he actually feels like he can breathe for the first time since Sam had asked him if they could take a break.

"I'm staying with you," Chris declares, after he takes away the ice cream cartons. "I'll sleep on the couch if you want, but you shouldn't be alone right now."

"I think I can control myself sharing a bed with you," Will says, smiling. "Come on." He leads Chris into the bedroom, and they strip down to underwear and the t-shirts that they already have on.

"Am I that easy to resist?" Chris asks, batting his eyelashes.

"Am I?"

Chris bites his lip but says nothing, only waits for Will to roll over to spoon up against his back.  Will is too upset to feel anything other than comfort in that embrace, and right now that's all he's looking for.  He falls into a coma-like sleep in minutes.  He wakes up with no memory of how they'd been during the night, but they're face to face now, his head nearly against Chris' shoulder instead of his own pillow.  He pulls back, but this only brings Chris' face into a fuller view, and those angles and slopes striped with early morning sunlight are almost insultingly beautiful.  

Chris' eyes open.  Will isn't sure which is more endearing—the smile he gets when Chris catches him watching, or the crust at the corners of Chris' eyes and the drool on his chin.

He's positive that they're about to have a  _moment_  when Chris rasps, "Your breath is horrible."

Will laughs, inching closer. "I feel like we've had this conversation before."

"I think we have."

He smiles. "Thank you for staying."

"Have breakfast with me?  My treat."

They eat oatmeal and fruit at a local cafe and then walk home in the early sunshine, bumping elbows and keeping their heads down as they've learned to do.  Back at Will's apartment, Chris takes off his hat and sunglasses.

"Can I shower and make a few calls?" he asks.

"Do you need—"

"No, I brought a change of clothes.  Thanks.  I'll be quick."

Quick is an hour, but Will is used to Chris' work being constantly present and demanding.  He dicks around with his own in the interim, and yet again stops himself from making a passive aggressive relationship-related blog post.

Chris comes into the kitchen wet-haired and smelling good, wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a dark red t-shirt that barely holds up to the width of his shoulders.  Will looks pointedly back at his laptop. Chris is hot beyond hot, but it's the weirdly domestic sight of his naked feet that capture Will's attention— _feet_  should not be doing the things that they are currently doing to his libido, especially not after the disaster that his weekend has been.

Chris hovers, a Diet Coke in his hand, and Will is trying not to pay attention and so is taken off-guard when Chris sits down on his leg and then slides into his lap.  He's shocked by how right it feels, how easy.  Chris smiles, kisses the crown of Will's head, and sets his soda can down on the table.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," he says, daring to loop one arm loosely around Chris' waist.  

Those wiggly little toes are still driving him crazy.  He's never been able to forget the way that they'd curled up when Chris had come.  He wonders if they still do.

"Would you come back to LA with me?" Chris asks. "Do you have plans?"

He hesitates. "I'll be okay here by myself.  Really." He puts his cheek on Chris' shoulder and feels relief. "Anyone ever tell you you're kind of a caretaker?"

Chris shifts farther into his lap. "Not really.  Unless they're calling me Grandma.  Which they often are."

He laughs. "I see."

"That's sweet," Chris says. "No one's ever said that to me before."

He watches pleasure flit across Chris' face, and wants to kiss him so badly that he can't move for fear of doing it.  And then he wonders why he isn't already doing it.  If Sam wants to be on a break, shouldn't he allow himself the freedom that it offers, too?  But he doesn't believe in breaks, not really—in his world, you're either all in or all out.  And to use Chris—yet again—like a vacation, feels wrong.  Because Chris isn't a vacation.  There's nothing fleeting about the way that Chris makes him feel.

"It's funny," Chris says, "you haven't said a word about—my appearance.  The first thing that people who knew me before say when they meet me now is 'oh my god you look like a different person'."

"You were gorgeous then, and you're gorgeous now," he says. "You just turned the volume way up.  You really have come a long way—don't get me wrong, I don't mean to dismiss your hard work and sacrifice. Trust me, I know what it takes.  And you look incredible.  I just—see you.  For you.  I guess."

"I've been trying to look at you and figure out how you've changed," Chris says, blushing, and maybe evading a little. "You have.  I think it's less superficial and more—you just seem older.  A little less sharp.  I like it." His expression softens as his fingers graze Will's t-shirt. "These are still nice, though."

Will tilts his head and smiles, enjoying the way that Chris' ears have gone bright red. "Thank you."

"I should get going.  Are you sure you don't want to come home with me?"

"I need some space, I think.  But—last night.  Thank you."

At the door, he wants to say  _don't go.  Stay.  Please, please stay._  But he doesn't.  He's not ready.

 

*

 

They go to their favorite bar and Sam is there among the throng and says, "I really hope you take some time to have fun.  We should be sure, don't you think?  There are so many great guys here..."

Ashley says, "You are all fucking idiots." She pauses. "Idiots who will all shortly be buying me tequila.  So let it be done!"

Will feels like that dot in Pong, and then he just feels overwhelmed when Chris walks in with another guy.  Another guy who puts a hand on Chris' arm for long enough to indicate that they are not just friends.  Ashley breaks off to talk to them but Will doesn't follow her.  He knows that he can't expect Chris to hang around waiting for him and Sam to implode—but he'd thought—

What? He doesn't even know what he'd thought.

Ashley comes back to him, slides a soda into his hand, and says, "You don't need to be trashed right now.  Listen.  He's just having drinks with this guy he made plans with a while ago.  It's not serious." She narrows her eyes. "Do something."

"Sam is here!"

"Sam put you two on a break and just practically told you to go get some."

"I don't want to just go get—"

She groans. "Do I have to duct tape your dingle berries together?"

He sighs. "Chris is—for me, I mean—"

"I am not stupid.  But this is an opening.  It's a  _start_. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"There was the time with the sriracha sauce, and then the time you suggested we ignore the GPS—"

"Shh, angel.  Shh.   _Go_."

He moves down the bar, but he can't bring himself to interrupt Chris and his date, not with how close they're sitting and talking.  When they finish their first drink and a couple of other people go up to mingle with them he moves in, though, touching Chris' side to get his attention.

"Hey, you," Chris says, hugging him. "I wasn't sure if you were coming."

 _You're here_ , Will thinks,  _where else would I be?_

And the world stops around him.  He doesn't even hear what Chris says next.  He just stares, the thought reverberating in his head, until it's taken up every inch of free space.

He belongs with Chris.  He has since the moment when they'd laid eyes on each other.  It's doesn't make him less.  It doesn't require sacrifice.  It doesn't even need to be articulated.  It's just a fact—etched deep and dark, right there for him to see all this time.  He's been blind for so long.

Chris' date asks, "Hey, who's your friend?" and all Will can see in him is a twinky surfer type wearing expensive sunglasses and a fake tan and he has no idea why Chris is with this guy and not him and then he realizes that maybe that is because he's been with someone else this whole time, and when the chance to break it off had presented itself, all he'd done was  _whine_  about it.  Chris has no idea how crazy about him Will is.  None at all.

"Hey, Will.  Earth to Will.  This is Mika."

"Hi, Mika," he says, automatically polite, sticking his hand out.

"Charmed," Mika says, not looking impressed.

"Can you give us a second?" Chris asks.

Mika seems only too happy to turn to the person on Chris' other side at the bar.

"What's up?" Chris asks him.

"Are you—on a date?"

"We made plans a while ago," Chris says, "I dunno, not really." He tries to smile. "Sam is here, I noticed.  Maybe—break over?"

"Or he's here to pick someone up."

Chris' mouth closes. "Do I need to take my earrings off and go defend your honor?"

At the other end of the bar, Ashley mimes someone hanging themselves with a rope, and he realizes that he's being completely ridiculous. This is Chris.  This is his best friend Chris who he is apparently one thousand percent in love with.  

"Would you take a drive with me?" he asks.

Chris blinks. "Huh?" Will purses his lips.  Chris' blinks slow down even farther, and then his lips part. "Oh.  Oh.  Um.  Yes. Yeah, of course." He turns to excuse himself from his date.

As they walk past Ashley, she smacks Will on the ass and then knocks back a shot with a not-so-softly whispered, "Thank  _fuck_."

They drive toward the beach but not all the way, turning into an underground parking garage that's so crowded with cars (but not people) that it will offer them near-perfect privacy.  Something nondescript and Top 40 is playing on the radio.  Will turns it off without asking Chris if he minds.

"What's wrong?" Chris asks. "You're freaking me out."

Will grabs Chris' flailing hand and laces their fingers together.  He breathes out, harsh and shuddering, and holds that twined pair of hands between them like a talisman.

"Chris," he says, soft, wanting, adoring, "sweetheart, please." Chris' face goes blotchy and his eyes so blue that it's startling. His chest hitches, stopping midway through his next breath. "You were never just a vacation for me," Will says. "You're home.  You've always been home." He swallows heavily. "I was just going to kiss you.  Maybe convince you to get into the backseat with me, to take advantage of my hall pass, to see if we—but I don't need that.  I just need to know if I'm the only one, here."

"Oh my god."

"Chris."

Chris' eyes grow too bright, too glazed, too fast. "Oh my god." He takes his hand back and puts them both in his lap, staring at the steering wheel.  His shoulders twitch, just once, and he digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and breathes in and out heavily. "Okay." He makes a noise. "Okay, one: we are getting into that backseat because I can't reach you from here and you should appreciate that Will Sherrod because I do  _not_  get into backseats with boys in public  _ever_ , is that clear?"

Will nods dumbly.  They climb into the backseat after making sure that the parking garage is abandoned as far as their eyes can see.

The moment that they're settled, Chris straddles Will's lap. "I am  _vexed_."

"Oh," he says, "I'm s—" Chris cups his face and kisses him, surprisingly gentle for someone who is vexed.  Nothing exists but Chris' mouth and hands for about twenty seconds, and when he finally lets go Will melts into the seat beneath them, staring dizzily into space.

Chris smiles like the sun rising for the first time. "It's a good thing I'm in love with you, otherwise this would have been super embarrassing for you, huh?" Will slumps into him, deflating.  He smiles. "Okay, reprieve over.  What the hell made you do this  _today_?"

"It's been happening for a long time," Will says, his heart pounding, "but this thing with Sam, and seeing you with that guy—it suddenly made no sense to me why we weren't together.  None." He puts his hands on Chris' shoulders and leans in, brushing their mouths together again.  Chris kisses almost the same as he had before—just more confidently.  It's so familiar, though, that it makes Will  _weak_.

"I have wanted to kiss you," Chris says, punctuating each phrase with a kiss, "for so long," kiss, smack, "you have no idea," smack, kiss, "oh my god, you feel so good,  _touch_  me—" Will runs his hands everywhere that they can reach.  The freedom to do so is making him giddy.  Chris is hard and lean with surprisingly pleasant soft spots, so different from the gawky teenager who Will had taken apart.

Chris whines, tearing their mouths apart, and writhes against him, knocking their foreheads together. "Come home with me," he says, kiss-biting down Will's neck while tugging on the hair at the nape of Will's neck. "Come home with me right now."

Will doesn't remember the drive.  They don't make it past the living room, and he's pretty sure that he just stepped on Brian's tail.  None of that matters.  They're ripping each other's jackets and shirts off before they even find a safe falling trajectory to the couch, and fumbling with each other's flies before they even stop bouncing on the cushions.  It's a blind, greedy search, devoid of the concern for propriety.  They don't need for this first gasp to be slow or romantic, though they both enjoy romance—they just need to get beneath each other's skin until that initial, itchy ache is relieved.

Will fumbles between them, lines them up, holds them in place as Chris goes wild beneath him, fucking up against him frantically.  

He grows impatient halfway through, swats Will's hand away, and asks, "Can you come just from this?"

"I can with you," Will says.  He holds Chris from beneath his shoulders, and there isn't an inch of them that isn't touching as they rut wildly into each other, dicks crammed sweaty and full between their bellies, so sticky that the friction is almost too much.

"Oh, god," Chris whimpers, wrapping his long, naked legs around Will's thighs. "I'm gonna come."

Will kisses him and then watches him, slows down just enough to draw out that final climb a little longer.  Chris falls apart staring into Will's eyes, his own fracturing blue-green-gray dark around their edges.  It's the most beautiful thing that Will has ever seen—since the last time that he'd seen it, of course.  It pushes him right over the edge, and he watches himself spurt out of the corner of his eye, right up the naked, lean slope of Chris' torso.  His come puddles as high as the hollow of Chris' heaving throat—it shimmers there, glossy and thick, and he stifles the urge to lean down and lick it off.

Shuddering, Chris laughs, and Will holds him tighter, slotting their mouths together as they shake.

"I love you," he says.  He's never uttered that phrase so soon after confessing feelings for someone in his life.  But it's simply the truth. "I love you so much."

"Break up with Sam," Chris says, digging fingers into his hair. "Today. An hour ago."

"Done."

Yet again, Sam beats him the punchline—or, rather, he discovers that for himself, because when he calls Sam another guy picks up his phone (Will has a sneaking suspicion that it's lap sitting guy from that movie night, the one with the cigarettes) and tells Will that Sam's in the bathroom and, when he realizes who the caller is, tells Will that he and Sam have been fucking for months and to get a clue and learn to appreciate what he's got.

_Well. Fuck._

He looks at Chris, who is cleaning himself off while simultaneously trying to fend off Brian ("No!  Bad cat!  Semen is not for kitties!"), and says, "You know what?  That's some pretty good advice.  Thanks."

 

*

 

They keep it quiet at first.  Sam doesn't want his relationship with the new guy to be public knowledge yet, and Chris is worried that Will's friends might give them more shit than they can handle right now, since they all still socialize together.  

Since they're keeping it relatively private, they end up leaving gatherings together often and as early as possible, so that they can get in some alone time together, and—well, Will had forgotten what it's like to be insatiable with someone who is almost more insatiable than you are.

The first time that they actually get past handjobs and rubbing and frantic, sloppy blowjobs Chris has him against his closed front door with two hands on his ass and he's saying, "I want to fuck you."

Will gathers that Chris has more or less been exclusively topping since they had been together, and he isn't opposed to finding out what Chris has learned.  

Four hours later he's spread eagle on Chris' bed, sucking a water bottle like it's the last in existence, Chris sprawled naked, wide, sticky, and glorious over half of his body.  He has never been fucked like that in his life.  He thinks that they must have managed to get into every position known to man and some that weren't—he has friction burns on his  _everything_ , and is a happy, happy man.

Chris kisses circles around his stiff nipples, looking very pleased with himself.  He punctuates his point by waiting an hour and then making Will suck him dry.  Again.

Will creates his getting over an asshole playlist.  And then he creates his sexy times playlist.  He thinks that it's a good progression.

 

*

 

Will learns that Chris is a bit of a showoff when it comes to sex—which is entirely earned, of course, but not the whole picture.  After several months, they're still doing the same things that they'd done when they began dating, and he figures out that this is because Chris has settled on his preferences and stuck to them and become extraordinarily good at executing them and—that is Chris in a nutshell.

But they change shape together as they date, and Chris surprises him by lessening the consistency of habits that he's nourished since he began fucking fellow discreet gay actors—he's often aggressive and bossy, and the topping thing seems to have become a comfortable way for him to control every encounter that he'd had, to have his partners where and how he'd wanted them.  But with Will, Chris doesn't have to do that—doesn't have to be that guy if he doesn't want to be—and Will notices him letting go a little more every time that they sleep together.  He's more vocal, more himself, less concerned about showing both his more extreme masculine  _and_  effeminate qualities.

He confesses that he's always not wanted to be a stereotype, and Will shrugs and smiles and asks, "Who cares what you are as long as it's  _what_ _you are_?" and Chris looks at him with a tilted head and smile that says  _I love you_.  So Chris doesn't worry as much anymore, and it shows—he's happier, freer, less censored in private company, which translates to less anxiety when he's in public or working.  Will adapts more or less immediately to shadowing Chris when they go out, close but not too close, which gives Chris a chance to relax even further.  And when there's backlash and Chris is more upset than he is, he doesn't hesitate to say  _yes, of course I will_  when Chris suggests that he lock his social media.  

In return, Will learns not to worry so much about being everything for everyone, and he re-embraces his filthy sense of humor, which Chris shares.  He feels creative again, and works on his screenplays with fresh ideas in mind and a new zeal for writing—how could he not, practically living with Chris?

 

*

 

They go to Naya's Christmas party, and Chris is  _glowing_.

It's only the third or so outing that they've attended as a couple without Will's friends around, and something about approaching Christmas with Chris beside him and Sam behind him is just—intoxicating.  He finds himself hovering near Chris all night, standing close as they drink and mingle, his hands on Chris' back and hips until Chris learns how to turn into him without halting the conversation.  

It's a good group of people, and Chris is unusually bubbly.  Will loves seeing this side of him.

Chris nuzzles up to him when the music plays, nuzzles up to him when they dance, and nuzzles up to him as one of his friends drives them home.

"I like your friends," he says, helping Chris out of his coat—they're both still a little tipsy.

"I like your—you," Chris says, and giggles, draping his arms around Will's neck.

They get to the bed with only a few stumbles, and by the time that they're comfortable they're more or less sober.  Will rolls over on top of Chris, kissing his shoulders and collarbone.

"You're getting bigger," Will says.

"I'll never be as big as you."

Will laces their fingers and pins Chris' arms down. "Hm." He drags their hands down the bed with him as he kisses along Chris' chest and belly, all the way to his cock. "Complaints?"

Chris giggles. "Nope." He doesn't even think about it, really. He just hikes Chris' legs over his shoulders and licks a stripe down one of Chris' balls. "Oh, my god," Chris says, tugging at the one pair of their hands that are still twined together.

"Complaints?" he asks, staring up at Chris as he licks a path to where Chris' thigh and groin meet.

"I'm not—I don't—with the ass stuff.  I mean—"

He tips Chris' thighs up and back and kisses down their hairy, warm lengths, from the curve of Chris' ass to mid-thigh and back again. "Really?" he asks, placing a series of gentle bites up the back of Chris' thigh.  He cups Chris' ass and crack in his right hand, thumbing the baby soft skin of his sac, above, around, and below. "Is that a no?"

Chris stares at Will through the gap between his thighs. "Uh."

"Should we have the preferences talk?"

"You bottomed the first time we fucked."

"I'm pretty much a switch man." He kisses the curve of Chris' left cheek, along the inside where it's less hairy. "You've only topped since?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I see," he says, kissing over Chris' perineum.

Chris wilts, his shoulders dropping to the bed. "Um.  Do you like—doing that?"

"Doing what?"

Chris goes beet red. "Will."

He sucks an open-mouthed kiss against Chris' perineum. "This?" And another. "Putting my mouth down here?" And another. "My tongue?" And another, just a fraction of an inch lower. "Licking you open?  Filling you up with my fingers until you need my cock to make the empty feeling go away?"

"Oh my god," Chris breathes, closing his eyes. "I dunno, it's never felt good, just—weird, and it burns."

"I'm not sure exactly why it's been like that for you," Will says. "Bad prep, bad foreplay, lack of desire to actually do it, whatever—all likely." He continues kissing Chris' skin as he talks. "But—it's okay to be curious, to want it, to like it, as much as it is to not." He goes for it, because he knows that Chris had had this problematic thought when he was younger, at least. "It doesn't make you any less of a man, honey." His mouth curves. "It just means that I have another way to make you feel good."

"I want to try everything with you," Chris says. "Maybe just—touching, first?"

"Anything you want."

"Okay. I want."

"Mm. Get a condom and the lube.  I want to suck you, too."

Chris shakes through the whole process, until Will has his legs up and folded in on his chest so that he can't actually see what's happening, and something about that seems to relax him instantly.  He goes still and loose when Will licks stripes up his crack and over and around his quivering, flexing rim.  Will strokes his cock and then swallows it, thumbing his asshole in time with the bobs, until he feels it relax and then begin to flutter eagerly.  He presses into the depression and fills it with his thumb, which is slick with lubricant.  His dick throbs at the sight of Chris's gorgeous ass, spread and wet and pink and shimmering around his finger.

"With me?" he asks, breathing heavily.

"Y-yeah," Chris squeaks. "It—doesn't feel bad." He twists his wrist and pushes in and up, and then gently rocks out and back in again. "Oh, god."

"Mm. More?"

"Yeah."

He takes his time, ignoring the burn in his forearm and reapplying the lubricant every time that it dries up completely (this is probably overkill, but he doesn't want Chris to feel any discomfort).  Chris slowly relaxes, unfolding his legs, putting his feet flat on the bed, spreading his knees, and allowing himself to look down at what Will is doing.  Will adds a second finger and begins stroking more upwardly, wondering if Chris' prostate is responsive or not, swollen or not.  He's been with guys who had simply never responded to prostate stimulation at all, no matter what he did.

Chris is a vision of pink and white, his head tilted on the pillows, his body flushed to his nipples, his hands flexing on his belly.  He looks so sweetly vulnerable with his ass spread wide and his hole on display, full of Will's fingers.  He's breathing deeply and evenly now, his eyes glittering.

"K-kiss it?" he asks. "Want to feel your tongue again."

Will maintains eye contact as he leans in to lick long, careful strokes around Chris' stretched rim.  He stops to suckle Chris' perineum, and jacks his fingers in and out a little faster.

"Oh," Chris moans, "oh, wow." His voice is as high as it ever gets, teetering on the edge of breaking, and when he reaches up to idly twist one of his nipples, Will has to stop and grind his dick into the bed because that is just  _criminal_  levels of hot.  Chris smiles, lazy and wide, like Brian after a successfully pilfered muffin basket. "Are you getting off on me getting off?"

"Yes?" Will asks, rolling his wrist.

"Holy shit," Chris hisses.

"There we go."

"Holy fucking  _shit_."

Will licks a stripe up the underside of his cock as it twitches, ramrod straight, perfectly perpendicular to his belly. "That's it. Just feel that, honey.  Let it happen." Angle found, he grinds quick, upward presses with his fingers, anchoring the touch at his thumb on Chris' perineum, until Chris' cock is throbbing in his mouth and Chris' hips are coming up off of the mattress in rhythmic rolls.

Chris' hands flutter, unsettled, and finally land on the bed.  His mouth is open and his eyes closed and he's fucking Will's mouth with desperate but restrained little jolts, his ass a spasming thing of loveliness mouthing down around Will's fingers.

"God, babe, you're so sensitive.  How have you gone all this time with no one taking care of this ass?" Will asks, in between sucks.

"Fuck," Chris gasps, coming up on his elbows and putting one sweaty, trembling hand on Will's head.  Will coats his fingers again and presses a third finger inside, swallowing Chris' cock to the back of his throat.  It doesn't take long to get from that to a wild push-pull of fingers in, mouth down, mouth up, fingers out, until Chris is sobbing and rutting down into his hand and mouth roughly.

He can't believe that Chris has never felt this before, has never had the pleasure of being spread wide and full while your dick spurts and your balls draw up.  When he comes Will almost comes fucking against the bed, but he holds off to enjoy every second of Chris bent in half, sweating, red-faced, and completely overwhelmed.

Chris is still twitching when he folds forward over Will and kisses his spit-slick mouth. "That was  _intense_." There's something new in his eyes, a kind of amazement that makes Will feel virile and proud, and he surges forward and presses Chris flat beneath him, kissing his sweaty, flushed neck.

"I am going to worship every inch of you," he whispers, and means it, and doesn't just mean sex. "I am never going to let you forget how sexy you are."

Chris bends, and Will sees the grin on his face. "I wanna do it again. Let's do it again."

"That's my Christopher."

 

*

 

It's the day after a particularly stressful event that had left Chris clasping his hand and whispering, "I need to go, I need to go now, okay?" and Will realizing for the first time that taking care of Chris is going to reinvent him in many ways.  He gets them to Chris' handler and then to the valet, and Chris knocks back a shot when he gets home and hides in his office for three hours.  Will goes home without being asked to, but the next morning Chris calls and asks him to please, please come back now, and he does, armed with champagne and sushi that they eat standing at the island in the kitchen.

"So that's me," Chris says, "I mean, sometimes."

Will chews. "Am I supposed to be upset?  Because I'm not."

Chris stares at him, as if he might disappear at any moment, or as if he's been some kind of hallucination since the beginning. "My life is a lot.  My coping methods need work.  I just—I'm not anywhere near as together as I seem.  But I'm not as fucked up as I should be, I guess."

Will lies him out on his bed and works massage oil into his back for the rest of the afternoon, and when the sun goes down he lights candles around the spa tub in the master bath and they get in together, too-long limbs a tangle in the water, and Chris is somehow a little shy.  Will holds him from behind, draws shapes with wet fingertips on the goosebumps-covered skin of his chest and arms.

"Why did you leave yesterday?" Chris asks.

"You needed space.  You needed your home to be yours."

"Maybe I don't."

"Hm?"

"Maybe I need it to be yours, too."

Will's heart knocks against Chris' back. "Oh."

"Think about it."

They've only been dating for six months—they've been to Paris, Chris' movie premiere, he's won over Chris' family, they went to the SAGs, celebrated their first Valentine's Day, and attended Elton John's Oscar party—but it feels like a lifetime, and this is not something that Will needs to think deeply about before making a decision.  He's been looking for a change for a long time, and this is as perfect a segue as he can imagine.  He puts his apartment on the market, quits his job, and has not a single regret.

 

*

 

Living together is a lot of things, some difficult and some extraordinarily easy, but it's the little things that make it shockingly new and memorable—having someone to sleep next to all night and wake up with.  Hours in the kitchen just messing around playing with the cat. Movie and show marathons curled up on the couch.  Making the Paramount lot his second home because living so close means that he visits Chris at work often and, more and more as time goes by, Chris' Glee family is becoming their social circle.  He learns so much.  He grows up so much.  Chris and the people who matter to him expand Will's frame of reference in ways that both humble and thrill him.

It's getting to learn every tick in Chris' expressions and what they mean. It's learning the meaning of his blushes and the length of his silences, and the way that he gets when he's sad and inward and the way that he gets when all he needs is to connect because he can with Will because it's not a chore.  It's the way that he lets Will in, emotionally and physically, those warm stares over his shoulder when Will comes up behind him and palms his waist and fits their bodies together and it feels so right.

It's the first time that Will pulls his boxers down and bends him over the kitchen counter and eats him out until he's sobbing into the sink. They don't have the preferences talk again, but Chris doesn't need to do anything active to encourage him, and as they learn each other's cues it's easy to tell when the mood is right and when it isn't. Some mornings Chris will roll him over and slide back inside of him without asking, relying on the give of his body, and Will loves every second of it.  But just as often Will finds himself between Chris' legs beneath the covers when it's still dark out, twenty minutes to the alarm going off because Chris has to be on set, and he uses every second of those twenty minutes, Chris' thighs clamped against his ears while Will sucks him or jerks him off.

This is the status quo for months, and then one lazy Sunday afternoon Chris comes down from a shower wearing nothing but a towel, straddles Will's lap at the kitchen table, kisses him open-mouthed and hungry and says, "I want you to take me upstairs and fuck me."

Chris leads him by the hand all the way, lets him turn some music on, and then is just this shy of abrupt when they hit the bed (lubricant and condoms and a towel already there—god, he must have been thinking about this all morning), and Will doesn't capitulate because he can feel the nervous, jittery flutter in Chris' touch at the end of each kiss.

"Hey," he says, petting the bare, lovely legs that Chris has draped around his hips, "hey.  Kiss me.  Just kiss me, okay?"

Will laces their fingers together and presses Chris' arms above his head, flat on the bed beneath the pillows, tugs him down until he's lying flat from heel to head, and when he makes that little noise he makes when he's pleased, Will relaxes.  They stop to breathe.

"I'm not forcing it, if you're worried," he says, as Will kisses down his neck and across his chest. "I—really, really want to do this, and I thought you would pick up on that, but it's been weeks and weeks and I've been fingering myself in the shower and using the t-toy but it's not the same and—"

"Fuck," Will breathes, taking Chris' right nipple between his teeth. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I dunno.  I dunno, just, please—"

"Do something for me?" Chris' eyelashes flicker, flutter, over eyes that are currently, startlingly green. "Lie on your stomach and kneel up?  It feels so good that way, and I want you to be comfortable."

"Okay," Chris says.  And  _oh, god_ , the sight of that long, pale body turning over, back bent and shoulders bunched and hair mused...

Will is so fantastically in love and lust with this man.  He eases two pillows beneath Chris' hips, and then kisses down the length of his spine, stopping with a lick at his sacrum.

"Not going to rim you," he says, stroking Chris' cheeks. "I want you to feel it without—anything before." Chris whimpers, tenses up all over, and bends wantonly back into him.

_Fuck._

He takes his time with the lubricant, though, letting it warm up in his palm before applying it with deliberation, catching the runoff and dragging it over Chris' crack again and again until his hole relaxes and Will can press some inside, too.  He slicks his condom-clad cock more heavily than he usually does, and then lingers for a few minutes, kissing Chris' back and shoulders and spine until he's breathing almost trance-like, his round, high ass tilted up and his head pillowed on his arms.

"Okay?" Will asks.

Chris hums. "Feels good.  So good."

"I'm going to go slow, but tell me if it feels weird and I'll go faster." He's never been someone's first anal sex experience, but he doesn't need that particular experience to know Chris—he bends close when he moves to press in, molding his chest to Chris' back, kisses Chris' hair and sort of holds him all over, and when he lets his dick slide up and down Chris' crack, he feels Chris' moan as well as hears it.

Chris' hips rock, pressing back into him. "Oh—oh, god, that feels good." His knuckles are white where they're clutching the pillow that he'd tugged into his arms. "F-fuck.  Will."

It's so hot in the room, and Will's dick is tight and full and wants to be buried so, so badly.  He fucks Chris' cheeks for so long that the lubricant dries and he has to reapply it, but it's worth it, if only just to get to see how squirmy Chris has become, his pucker gaping and his thighs trembling.  Will sits up on his knees and presses forward.  He can't wait anymore, and he can sense Chris' impatience.

" _Ah_ ," Chris says. "Ah, ah, ah."

"Relax. Just relax, as much as you can." His pace is glacial once the head pops in—he knows he's a big boy—but about halfway there Chris starts to whimper in a way that isn't good, and he stops. "Hurts?"

"Weird," Chris replies, breathing rapidly, "just, go in all the way? It's weird like this."

Will exhales, sliding in to the base of his cock, and then goes still, holding Chris' tiny waist and waiting.

"You're fucking huge."

"Too dry?"

"No, that's good."

Will thumbs Chris' stretched rim and his slick crack, and gently pulls back, all the way to the tip but not out, because he knows that sometimes the head popping out and pushing back in can be uncomfortable, and when he sinks in the second time Chris' ass is less a clamp and more a snug hold.

"God, you feel incredible," he says.

Chris whimpers, and shifts around a little. "You can move. Just—slow."

It's the slowest, sweetest, hottest fuck that he's ever had, Chris' back bending more with every thrust, the breathy noises of surprise that he makes when it starts to feel good, and the way that his ass stretches as it learns to accept the intrusion.  Not once does he say that it's uncomfortable or weird again, and Will—Will feels like he could fly to the moon and back.

And then Chris begins to sway, rock back and forth and up and down on his cock, and he fumbles for the lubricant, and then Chris' head tilts back and his profile is visible, sharp and gorgeous and apple red from his jaw to his ear tips and down the back of his neck.

"Oh my god," he moans, coming up on his hands, "oh god, oh god, yeah.  Yeah.  Fuck.  Oh my god."

Will can't explain what this does to him.  It's a connection that they've never made—one he has to admit that he's wanted to make for some time—and Chris is reacting beyond his wildest expectations.

He tries to go slowly, but when Chris is fully up on his hands and knees and is rolling back onto the shaft of his cock like he would take more if Will had it to offer, he can't manage that—he fucks Chris faster, down and in toward the pillows and his belly, and when he slides his hands from Chris' waist to the sides of his torso, Chris puts one hand on his and holds himself up with the other and his knees.  

They clutch each other and ride the waves, and Will can't feel a boundary between them anymore—it's just an endless volley of pleasure, detached from the race to orgasm and the urge to perform.

"D-do you want me to touch you?" he asks, breathing heavily, his fingers dancing across Chris' belly.

"No," Chris whimpers, high-pitched and obviously close to losing it, "don't have to, oh, fuck, I'm gonna come.  I'm gonna come, don't stop."

"Shit. Are you—"

"Don't stop don't stop don't stop right there."

 _Take Me To Church_  is playing from his laptop's speakers, and just as Chris goes rigid, the lyrics sing out:

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life_

He gawks, shivering, as Chris's pelvis goes wild, rutting as fast as their pulses are racing, and then Chris lets out a moan so strangled that it causes him  _pain_ , and Chris—comes all over the bed, untouched, his head thrown back and his sobs echoing off of the far wall.  Will can't even take credit for it.  He's never fucked the come out of a guy, and he has a feeling that it has more to do with Chris than him.

Chris just stays that way, tense and bent, shaking, his cock spurting weaker and weaker until it's just wet at the tip and shrinking, connected to the pillow beneath it by a thin strand of come.

"Wha," is the mumbled half-word that he blurts when he opens his mouth next.

Will blinks. "Uh, yeah."

"Is that.  Normal?"

"Um."

"Holy shit." He sits up on his knees, Will still hard inside of him, and Will wraps his arms around Chris' waist. "Oh, god, you're still—shit, keep going." He grinds up into Chris' ass, and takes his half-soft cock in hand, playing with it as he moves. "Oh— _mph_." Their bodies shake with his thrusts, and when he gets close again he buries his face in the shadow of Chris' jaw, and Chris tightens up around him.

" _Fuck_."

Chris turns his cheek, and kisses Will's trembling mouth.  He's smiling wickedly. "I felt that." He does it again, clenching his ass tight, and Will exhales noisily and fucks him faster. "Yeah, come on.  Come in my ass.  Know you've always wanted—"

Will can't take that.  He's fantasized about fucking Chris since probably the first time that they'd kissed on the beach in Ventura.  To say that he's rubbed that spank bank deposit raw would be an understatement.  He groans and bites down on Chris' shoulder when he comes, dragging fingernail tracks across Chris' belly as the orgasm ripples and ripples and finally dissipates.

"Condom's slipping," he exhales.

"S-sorry, just—feels good." After he slips out, Chris shivers and presses back into his chest. "I thought I'd want it out the minute it went in, and now I just want it back in.  Fucking  _weird_."

He laughs.  He can't believe that he's this lucky—he has never had sex this good.  Never.

They towel off and sprawl out on their backs, side by side.

"There's a rule that if someone can make you do that, you have to lock them down forever, right?" Chris asks, silly and undone and blissful, of the ceiling.

Will's heart skips a beat, and Chris looks at him and smiles that two-sided, deep-dimpled, tooth-revealing smile complete with sparkling eyes that makes Will feel like the only man in the world.

 

*

 

The weekend that they're set to pick up Cooper, they also have an overnight planned in Ventura—a friend of Will's is having a birthday party on the beach, and they had committed to attending the cook-out and staying for brunch the next day.  Chris laughs about the location before Will catches on and realizes that the house they're staying in is their crew's usual Ventura beach rental.  After dinner they walk upstairs and stand in the doorway of Will's room and shake their heads at each other.

"Was it always this small?" Chris asks, tilting his head.

"No. You're just bigger."

Chris pushes Will down onto the bed and straddles him. "I guess I am." He unbuttons his pants and smiles down at Will wickedly. "How badly did you want in me that week?"

"I was happy with what we did," Will says, thumbing Chris' hips as they undress. "But—yeah, god, I wanted to roll you over and faceplant in that ass and make you beg for it, you have no idea."

"Let me make it up to you?" He takes a travel-sized tube of lubricant from his vest pocket, and breathes hot and quick over Will's upturned jaw. "I want to ride you all night."

"There's cake."

"I want to ride you—until cake."

"That sounds amazing."

They've been tested and haven't used condoms for a while now, but it still thrills Will that they share that level of trust, as his dick slides hot and bare and slick up the crack of Chris' ass.  Chris goes with it so easily now, letting the head catch and then sitting down on it with an eager little squeak.

They roll around a little to give Chris' knees and thighs a break, laughing and talking in between rounds, commenting on how awful the room is and how they have seen such nicer beaches now that they've had a chance to travel.  Will is by no means destitute, but Chris takes care of business, and doesn't hold back when it matters to them that they have a memorable time.  

When Chris is back on top of him, he lifts his legs so that Chris can lean back against his thighs, changing the angle so that Chris can bounce straight up and down, taking his cock in deep, short rolls that make their breath come short and Chris' dick jolt in midair.  

"Mm, that feel good?" Will asks, grasping that cock and tugging at it.

"Yeah," Chris breathes, his hair moving faintly with the motion of his thrusts. "Yeah, yeah, keep doing that." He's almost in his own world now, his head fallen back and his eyes shut, ruddy to his nipples, his cock rosy and swollen in Will's fist. "Fuck. F-fuck, yeah." He draws it out, until even Will is having trouble holding off, and then goes over the edge all at once, fucking down deep and hard, grinding Will's cock inside. "Oh,  _god_ , yeah." He comes over Will's knuckles and splatters down onto Will's stomach.  Shaking, he lets out a delectable moan and rolls his hips. "Want you to come, too."

"Inside?" Chris had been a little weird about that in the beginning, right after they had stopped using condoms, so Will always asks now, just to make sure.

"Yeah, it's okay.  Yeah.  Just—want to  _make_  you come.  Want to—just with my ass, just make you  _shoot_. Oh fuck, keep touching me." His hips are jacking back and forth so hard and fast that they're making the bed shake.  Will holds on for dear life, his orgasm almost torn out of him at the same time that Chris comes again, dribbling weakly against his fingers.  Chris laughs, his head thrown back, and sweat beaded across his forehead and down his neck.

"Is this vindication?" Will asks, laughing and panting and rolling Chris' gloriously tight body under his while keeping them connected. "Have you reclaimed this room in the name of not-virginal-you?"

Chris giggles, sprawling out. "I love you."

"I love you, too.  And I loved you then." He smiles, and kisses the tip of Chris' nose just to make it scrunch up. "I'm always going to love you.  You know that, right?"

"I do now."

Cake and booze are lovely, especially after that romp.  Brunch is also nice, but by the time that their mimosas are gone and the driver they've booked is outside of the cafe, ready to take them back to LA, Will is happy to leave.  He has a lot of great memories of Ventura, but it isn't home anymore.  

Home is the space that he shares with Chris.  Home is the beautiful house that they had just moved in to together, both of their names on the deed.  Home is the place that they're about to bring their new puppy back to.  Home is watching Chris slide into the jacket that used to be his but hasn't been for quite some time, and smiling when Chris turns his nose into the collar and sniffs it, as if it will still smell like Will despite the fact that Will hasn't worn it in almost a year.  Home is sliding his hand into Chris' in the backseat of the luxury car and feeling Chris' fingers lace with his without hesitation.

"It's the same beach, but it feels so different now," Chris says, staring out the window as it disappears.

"Different us," Will says, sweeping his thumb over the back of Chris' hand.

"I'm still glad, though.  That it happened that way.  That we met when we did but also had the chance to—live, and appreciate what we had to offer each other."

"Me too." Will smiles. "And one day we'll bring our kids here, and I will embarrass the shit out of you by telling them the story of how I chased a volleyball into the ocean and found their dad lost and drooling because of the abs that daddy once had."

Chris' cheeks go red. "Is that so?"

Will had meant that, and has no intentions of retracting it. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"We should probably get married, then," Chris says, casually.

"We should."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Will's mouth twitches—and then Chris' does, too—and then they're both laughing, and Chris puts his hands to his face and breathes carefully, once, twice, and again.

"Doing alright over there?"

"Ask me that again when you actually put a ring on it, Sherrod.  I ain't having no kids out of wedlock."

"Sometimes you say the most romantic things."

"My boyfriend is kind of a sap.  It's contagious."

"He sounds like a sweet guy."

"He is."

"Does he know that you've been stealing his clothes?" Will asks, tweaking the sleeve of the jacket.

"Well, since everything that's his is about to be half mine by law  _anyway_..."

Will laughs, and then there's a beat of silence that feels like it contains the rest of his life in one single, massive, all-consuming pulse.  Chris is the love of his life, and whether they get married tomorrow or ten years from now, he'll cherish every day that they share as if it's their last.

He watches the sun drop over Ventura beach, and counts his blessings.


End file.
